Sonetto: I didn't expect any of this from what we saw outside.
The mottled yet pristine walls, the still waters, the silent white tower standing within the labyrinth.
Nearby, several prisoners form a circle, some standing, some sitting, engaged in conversation.
Jailer: sigh Excuse me for a moment. I have duties that I must attend to.
With a sigh, the jailer steps into the gathering, causing a strangely subdued reaction from the prisoners.
Sonetto: They don't seem intimidated by her at all.
Recoleta: Yeah, they just look like a bunch of artists having a chat in the garden. And the jailer seems to be like a grumpy neighbor coming over to ask them to keep it down.
The "grumpy neighbor" continues her chastising.
Jailer: Everyone, you know the rules. There are to be no after-hours gatherings here without the Physician's approval.
Inmate I: You sound softer and softer each time you come to warn us. Why not just join us? Isn't it better than circling around the Panopticon all day?
Inmate I: And look around you. We're in the Hall of New Encounters. What better place to host a salon?
Inmate II: You're missing out in Comala if you don't even get a taste of our literature.
Inmate I: Exactly. Even those oil-dripping musicians drop by from time to time. Not that they're the kind to care about the beauty of words.
Sonetto: Oil-dripping musicians? Timekeeper, could they mean—
Before the jailer can say anything else, two of the prisoners simultaneously gesture for her to stay silent, pointing to the center of their gathering.
Inmate I: Quiet now, please! The Idealist's salon is about to start.
Jailer: ...
Vertin: These people seem friendly enough. Why don't we see what this is about?
Gathering Participant I: In deserts, in stars, within labyrinths,
Gathering Participant II: In waters, in mirrors, within reflections,
Gathering Participant III: We dream on death's straw pillow.
Gathering Participant IV: Here we are, paying tribute to the ghosts,
Gathering Participant V: To give it all up again.
All Participants: To give it all up again.
The Idealist: My dear friends, we face a difficult truth: the movement of visceral realism still stumbles in the dark.
The Idealist: Our poems, our language, our minds are tangled by a stifling vine—a mundane, stale vision shared among all bourgeoisie.
The Idealist: We follow this vision blindly, clinging to the comfort brought by logic and conventional wisdom, and by it, we nip every branch of new art in the bud.
The Idealist: Poems are perhaps too fragile an outgrowth to develop one's life upon. But here, we may light them like candles at our funerals.
The Idealist: Let poetry become the bridge between us and the world.
A lone clap breaks the silence. It comes earlier than all the other cheers from the audience.
Recoleta: As we come back and forth over the boundaries of life and death, the old obstacles begin to take on a new look. With the eyes of poets, we may see behind them.
Recoleta: You're a visceral realist.
Recoleta: I can't be mistaken. You must be—
The Idealist's eyes pierce through the grove of literary enthusiasts, reaching a distant, drifting new world.
The Idealist: A lonely cowboy. Finally home.
The Idealist: What a wonder.
The Idealist: You're in time. The salon has just begun. And La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas isn't like those salons that care more about who's invited than the art. All are welcome here.
Sonetto: A literary salon in a prison? Though so far it seems to have more dancing than poems.
Vertin: Did you understand what that man just said?
Sonetto: No, sorry, Timekeeper. I need a moment to think it through.
Vertin: Don't worry, Sonetto. I would guess we're not the only ones who are confused here.
Vertin: Ms. Jailer, is this that peculiarity about Comala you mentioned earlier?
Jailer: ...
Jailer: Enough, Idealist. You're still an inmate here, and you're walking a very fine line right now.
The Idealist: Oh, I'm quite aware of where I am and what lines I tread.
The Idealist: This is a prison. The safest place for poets in this part of the continent. One cannot be arrested twice, after all.
The man's words draw laughter from the other prisoners as they turn to discuss the speech with excitement.
The Idealist: But please, don't trouble yourself with our little farce. What harm could a few poets possibly do?
All the irregular rhymes and wild contradictions of aesthetics converge into a chaotic countercurrent, crashing against the newcomers.
Recoleta clenches her fists in shock—certain that the man before her is her mysterious pen pal.
Recoleta: Mr. Idealist? Might I ask you something?
Jailer: Hold on, Recoleta. All forms of communication with the inmates must conform to our regulations. We will need to record the conversation and submit it to higher authorities for review.
Vertin: I have some questions for the gentleman as well, but we're more than willing to follow the rules.
Vertin: I think the person I'm looking for might have attended this literary salon, or at least talked to some of its members.
Vertin: I'd wager she's spoken to that gentleman. That is ... if she has been here at all.
Jailer: I see. Go ahead then. Just watch the time.
As the visitors petition the jailer, Recoleta pushes past the bustling crowd and takes a deep breath.
Recoleta: deep breath Are you Aleph?
The noisy atmosphere plunges into silence, just like the still waters nearby.
The Idealist is evidently taken aback by the name.
The Idealist: Oh! chuckle Another visitor looking for Aleph.
Recoleta: So you know him!
The Idealist: Naturally. But I'm not obliged to speak of him to one who does not, stranger.
The salon host is noncommittal, turning toward Recoleta's companions.
The Idealist: And you, young lady in the hat? Are you here for Aleph as well? What a lively day this is!
Vertin: No. I'm looking for a blind woman. Her name is Dores.
The Idealist: Ah, yes. I remember. Her writing was impeccable, like an exquisite crocodile-skin handbag in a shop window, elegant, yet condescending.
Vertin: Do you know where she is now?
The Idealist: I'm not able to keep track of every inmate here, Miss.
The Idealist: Perhaps you should ask those who have seen everything from above.
The Idealist: Through the glass, where the scrutinizing eyes of power look down on us.
Recoleta: Eyes?
She scans the prison hall. The walls, the great tower, and the pool remain unchanged. Nothing appears amiss.
All the prisoners present nod in agreement, prompting a weary sigh from the jailer.
Jailer: Have you taken your medicine today, Idealist?
The Idealist: I'm feeling marvelous! Today, I require no help from them!
Jailer: I've warned you. It's unwise to act against the Physician's orders.
The Idealist: Act against him? No one may act against him here.
The Idealist: The Physician must have misunderstood us. I suspect he doesn't understand half of what we say. I'd like to know how he got his medical degree. Not by cracking open skulls, I should hope.
The prisoners exchange knowing smiles.
The Idealist: What a pity, Jailer! You know, I've always believed you had the soul of a poet, just like us.
The Idealist: We've already spoken enough "rebellious thoughts" outside of Comala. How else do you think we ended up in your nuthouse?
The Idealist: We've been here far too long, long after the Junta was removed from office,
The Idealist: after our home became a deserted wasteland in the aftermath of the Latin American Boom.
Jailer: What are you getting at?
Recoleta: That power is boring, meaningless. Nothing holds onto power forever.
Recoleta: And the one true connection we have to life is poetry.
The Idealist: See, Jailer? Even an outsider understands our ideas better than you. It's time to open your eyes to reality.
The Idealist: La Sociedad is the only way for us to feel truly alive in here, beneath the gaze of those prying, ever-vigilant eyes.
Jailer: Idealist! Last warning. Stop this now.
The Idealist: Fine, fine! Alright, companions. Sadly, the salon must come to an end, as our jailer insists.
The crowd murmurs and grumbles as they begin to disperse.
The Idealist: Dear friends, I do not mean to abuse the power of suspense. I sincerely invite you to come with me to the heart of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
The Idealist: Perhaps you'll find the person you look for there.
The man strikes a gesture somehow equally comedic and solemn.
Vertin: We'd love to. Umm, only if that's okay with you, Ms. Jailer?
Jailer: I suppose that's alright. You're already here; we can call it part of your tour. But, please, ladies, take none of their ramblings seriously.
The Idealist: Thank you, Jailer! Please, follow me.
COMBAT